A Song of Ice and Fire: If You Can't Win, Cheat
by Fanofallthethings
Summary: The nerdiest soldier ever gets dropped into Westeros, with goals all his own. It's better than it sounds, I swear. M because, well, Game of Thrones shenanigans.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hi all, obviously I own nothing related to GoT or SoIaF, all credit for that to George R. R. Martin, the favorite character-killing bastard. As always, hope you enjoy and leave a review if you see something that raises your eyebrows.**

 **Prologue**

Technical Sergeant Patrick Jonas Worrel of the 77th Pararescue Wing was dead. There was no avoiding that conclusion. One minute his squad was moving towards the last known location of a downed helicopter crew in the sands of Afghanistan, the next he felt a sharp, sudden pain in his neck. And now he stood in a strange, white expanse, and of all the things that could be there with him, there was a fucking tree.

To be fair to the tree, it was certainly an interesting tree. A face weeping red sap was carved into it, and dangling from various branches were precious stones, six or seven different kinds. As if that shit wasn't weird enough, he could hear murmurings, indistinct voices that almost seemed to be coming from the tree. There was nothing else it could be coming from, he supposed, as other than tree and himself, there was nothing. For that matter, now that he thought about it, was he even there? He didn't seem to be… there, for lack of a better way to describe it.

He knew he was there, but he lacked a body, or anything physical to represent himself with. He could move, but it was more of a _feeling_ than actual movement. He could drift towards the tree, away from it, from side to side, but it happened at a thought, with no effort or _sense_ of movement. Who knew how long he stayed there, floating about and staring at the strange tree.

Finally, with nothing else to do, he closed on the tree itself. And suddenly, it spoke to him. There were no words, only a… feeling, but the meaning was clear. He was his life before his death, the events that led him to Afghanistan on that day. Since he was a child, he had enjoyed fighting. Luckily, he also had the self-discipline to not pick fights all the time, so for the most part he managed to stay out of trouble. As he got older, he got into games and books, ways to carry out the fights he so loved vicariously. From there, he started doing more, playing D&D, LARPing, hell, he even took martial arts, fencing, and even some kendo, both to improve his play and to get some fights in a space where he could fight freely.

Once he turned eighteen, he enlisted in the Air Force, figuring he'd be able to some more fighting in the military, and the Air Force was by far the most comfortable branch of service. There he discovered a love of firearms, especially historic ones. Eventually, he found a gunsmith and learned the trade himself, both to restore old weapons and to build his own. He lived comfortably, as between his pay and some smart investing he had money enough to support his habits, continuing his lifestyle until his last day on Earth.

Finally, the tree got to it's point, speaking directly to his mind. "Patrick, son of John, you were summoned here, before old gods and new, on your death to grant you a singular gift," it spoke.

It was at that moment that all the pieces clicked together in Worrel's head. A tree with a face crying red sap. Seven different kinds of crystals. He couldn't help but groan. "Seriously?" he muttered. "A self-insert into Westeros? And the whole 'meet the gods in a featureless world' trope to get me there? What kind of shitty author wrote this bullshit?" he seethed.

The tree carried on, regardless of his mutterings. "You will be reborn into the land of Westeros, into a minor noble family in the North. You will retain skills and memories pertaining to them in your new life, but the rest of your old life will be washed away. Do as you will, and we will be watching, with great interest," the tree intoned.

Patrick dropped his head into his hands… or he would have, if had hands. Or a head. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," he whined, as the world around whirlpooled and faded to black.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys, so just to warn you, the story starts with a timeskip. After all, who wants to read about some snot-nosed brat? Please leave reviews!**

 **Chapter 1**

-19 years later-

Patrick Worrel was no knight, but you'd be hard pressed to tell from looking at him. In fact, he wasn't a knight for one very simple reason: his House did not follow the Seven, and so they had no knights. Their armored cavalry was revered as some of the fiercest warriors in the north, however, which is how Patrick founds himself riding towards Winterfell, seat of the Starks for centuries, with twenty men to pledge themselves to the current Lord Stark, Eddard.

They had set out from House Worrel's ancestral home in the Lonely Hills, the Barrow nearly a week ago, and at last the walls of Winterfell were in sight. As they made their way towards the kingsroad from the side trails they had been following, another party of mounted men appeared, wending their way along the road towards Patrick's party. There appeared to be about nine or ten of them, and Patrick turned towards his men, gesturing for them to dismount. No sense scaring other travelers with an armed, mounted party double their size. Patrick and each of his men wore half-plate, including breastplates, greaves, and bracers, with half-helms on their heads and swords at their sides.

As the other party advanced towards them, Patrick recognized them. At the head of the party rode Lord Eddard Stark, flanked by Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard and his son, Robb. Behind rode his other sons, Bran and his bastard, Jon Snow, along with a few other members of his guard. Patrick led his horse towards them, signaling the rest of his men to hold back.

"M'lord Stark!" he called.

Lord Stark reigned to a halt, with Jory moving his horse in front to confront the lordling in front of him. "What do you want with Lord Stark, boy?" he queried.

Patrick dropped to one knee, still addressing Eddard Stark. "My lord, I am Patrick of House Worrel, come with twenty of my men to pledge myself to your House and your own service," he spake.

The high lord urged his horse forward, addressing Patrick himself. "House Worrel. I believe you and your father visited my seat some years ago to reaffirm your allegiance," he mused.

"Yes, my lord," Patrick replied. "It was three years ago. I sparred with your sons while my lord father spoke with you."

"I remember," Lord Stark began, starting to chuckle. "If I remember correctly, you gave Robb and Jon a sound beating each." Robb, behind his father, reddened a bit before regaining control of his emotions. "I would be glad to have you take service in my household, and your men as well if they are as skilled as you are. Ride with us back to Winterfell."

"Yes, my lord," Patrick smiled. He turned back to his horse, mounting and signaling for his men to remount and fall in. They rode back to Winterfell with Lord Stark's party, and it was then that Patrick noticed small bundles of fur in each of the boy's and some of the guardsmen's arms. Bundles that he quickly realized were direwolves. Inside, he gave a cheer. He had arrived precisely when he hoped to, right as the events of the first book began. It was time to begin the reshaping of Westeros.


	3. A Brief Interruption

Hey guys, as you may have noticed, I've taken down my original chapter two. First off, sorry about not updating, and thanks again for all the follows and favorites. On to the explanation. When I started this, I had a loose idea and a few specific scenes I wanted to write, and hadn't given much thought to what would go in between. I realized that my original chapter was shit, and since I've been stuck at work a lot over the past week or so, I haven't been able to come fix things. Luckily, I hate my job and spent a ton of time daydreaming while at work, so hopefully I can write a better story for y'all, more in keeping with the spirit of GoT. I will be writing and posting my new chapter two as soon as I publish this note, so I hope you understand and enjoy the rest of the story. Please continue to leave reviews! Also, to the Guest who posted the two massive comments on Chapter Two, thanks for the info dump, but if you're reading this I am totally lost on what exactly it was meant to convey. PM if you see this, I definitely want to talk!


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Patrick, of House Worrel, retainer to Lord Eddard Stark. Patrick smiled to himself. Things were going exactly as he had hoped. Lord Stark had allowed he and his men to join his household guard and let Worrel retain direct command of his men, as befitted his rank as the scion of his own House. All these thoughts ran through his head, mixed in with other thoughts about his plans for the future as he strode through the keep courtyard of Winterfell. He had just been in a meeting with Jory Cassel, Lord Stark's captain of the guard, and was on his way towards the forge to give Mikken, the blacksmith, a project that would have a lasting impact on the future of Westeros.

Patrick strode through the forge doorway, calling for the blacksmith. A moment later, the man himself hurried forth. "What can I do for you, my lord?" he queried.

"I have a project for you," Patrick smiled. "There are some, shall we say delicate, preparations I've been making for Lord Stark, and I find myself in need of some specialized components," he explained, producing a document detailing the pieces he needed.

Mikken frowned, poring over the parchment. "Tubes, some small levers and the like, a perforated cylinder… what is this for, my lord?" he questioned.

"Unfortunately, that needs to be kept under wraps for now, Mikken. How long will it take?" he asked.

"I'll need to make some molds, some will require some careful work, it should take, say, oh, a week, unless you want me to drop everything else and work solely on this?" Here he looked up questioningly, the doubt obvious in his face.

"No need for that, a week will be fine," Patrick smiled. "Thank you, Mikken." On his way out of the forge he bumped into someone who had always been one of his favorite characters. "Jon," he smiled, "what brings you down to the forge?"

Jon looked back at him in surprise, obviously not expecting to see one of his father's guardsmen at the forge as well. "I was coming to ask Mikken to make a sword, my lord…" he sputtered.

Patrick interrupted him with a small motion. "Jon, it's Patrick, please. I prefer to categorize people by their worth, not their titles, and seeing as we are most definitely not in an official setting…" here he trailed off, allowing Snow to see where he was going. "In any case, what do you need a new sword for? The one at your belt is a fine blade," he asked, waving at the sword of castle-forged steel Jon wore.

"It's, well, it's not for me," Jon replied.

"Who is it for then?" Patrick wondered, a small smile quirking his mouth. He knew damn well it was for Arya, but it would be interesting to see what Jon said.

Jon Snow drew himself up straighter, till he was on a level with Patrick. "It's for my sister, Arya," he announced.

Here Patrick let the smile he had been hiding break through completely. "Really?" he grinned. "Well let's see, what did you have in mind?

Snow was taken aback by Patrick's readiness to accept giving the young girl a sword. "You're not going… to tell my father, or ther septa, or,"

Patrick cut him off once again. "I see no problem with a woman of the North, much less a Stark, knowing how to fight," he stated. "So come on, what were you thinking for her? I hope not just a smaller longsword, she doesn't have the muscle to skill, and at her size she wouldn't be able to put much behind her strikes."

Jon was shaking his head even as Patrick finished talking. "No, I was thinking a rapier, like the Braavosi use. She;s small and quick, and that fighting style should suit her," he expounded.

"Perfect," Patrick smiled. "A sword should always fit it's owner's strengths. Take mine for example." Here he drew his sword from it's sheath, laying it across the flat of his hand to show Jon. The blade was slightly longer than the average longsword, adding extra reach to his attacks. The crossguard was a standard T, but a handguard emerged just below it, guarding his hand against the all to common loss of fingers. The blade was double-edged, and had been forged in the manner of a Japanese katana, a skill he remembered from his previous life. In short, his blade was stronger and sharper than any but a Valyrian steel blade, and had already served him well in the past.

As he finished explaining these things to Jon, Vayon Poole came into the yard, and seeing the two men talking, strode briskly over to them. "Jon, Lord Worrel," he began, "Lord Stark has requested your presence in the great hall."

Patrick turned. "Thank you, Vayon. We will go now," he said. "Jon, go ahead and talk to Mikken. I'll let your lord father know you will be along shortly."

Moments later, Patrick joined a group of Lord Stark's key retainers, among them Maester Luwin, Jory Cassel, and Lady Catelyn Stark. "A raven has arrived, bearing news both good and bad," he said, his voice booming out over the gathered assemblage. "Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, is dead. An illness suddenly overtook him and he perished. The raven also carried the news that King Robert Baratheon is coming north, to Winterfell. His party should arrive in a month. Begin your preparations. Luwin, Patrick, Jory, come with me. We have more to discuss."

How interesting, Patrick mused to himself. Finally, events had begun to break from the path set by the books, albeit not by much. Arriving in Ned's solar, the lord turned and spoke to them, in a much quieter voice than he had used to address the earlier assembly. "There is more news, all of it bad," he began. "Jon Arryn was murdered. Maester Luwin is already aware of this, but we also recieved a letter from my lady wife's sister, Lysa Arryn. She claimed that the Lannisters are responsible for the death of Jon Arryn. She has taken her son and returned to the Vale."

Maester Luwin took up the refrain. "It is mine and Lady Catelyn's opinion that the King is coming North with the attention of making Lord Stark the new Hand. As you know, they were both fostered by Lord Arryn, and King Robert likely still sees Lord Eddard as a brother."

Ned once again took over the conversation. "If they are correct, and I pray to the old gods they are not, I intend to bring both Jory and Patrick south to King's Landing. I will need good men by my side to survive in that lion's den. Jory, pick fifty men to accompany us south in that event."

Patrick spoke up. "My lord, are my twenty to be included in that number?"

Ned looked even grimmer at the question, if that was possible. "No," he responded. "I want you to bring your men south, yes, but not as part of my official retinue. I would have you join the party as free riders, and assuming I am made Hand, I will find a place for you and your men in the Red Keep. You will be my hidden ace, in case trouble arises.

Patrick nodded his acquiescence, but then voiced another question. "My lord, your plan is sound, but twenty men is a large number if you want us to escape too much notice. My men and I are sworn to House Stark, and all of it's members. I believe it would help matters to leave behind five of my men, with orders to act as personal shields to your wife and sons."

Ned Stark frowned. "Are you sure reducing your numbers is wise?"

Patrick smiled in return. "I am, my lord. We will be less noticeable, not to mention your family will be protected no matter what is happening by my men. I swear to you, they are all imminently capable, not to mention I and my men are blooded. All of us."

Lord Stark nodded his assent. "Very well, then. Take your fifteen and ride south. Meet the King's party near Moat Cailin and ride north with them. Gather information and find yourselves a place in his party."

Patrick bowed in response. "At once, my lord," he said, turning and sweeping out of the room, his cloak sweeping behind him.

Over the next few hours, he and his men began feverish preparations for their task, but his first task was to inform the five who would remain of their duties. "Mullyn, Aerin, Rowman, Cantrill, Drox, come here!" he called. The five he had named seperated themselves from their fellows and surrounded him where he stood at the front of the barracks. "You five will be remaining here in Winterfell for now," he explained, to much consternation among the five. "Stop your whining, you five are my most experienced men, and I'm assigning you to guard Lord Stark's family while I am gone. Mullyn, you will swear your sword to Lady Catelyn. Aerin, you will swear yours to Robb Stark, Rowman will swear his to Bran, and Cantrill to Rickon. Drox, I would ask you to guard Jon Snow. You need not swear yourself to his service, but I do expect you to act as if you had."

The five guardsman all murmured their assent, before splitting off to find their assigned wards. Patrick turned towards the rest of his men. "Prepare yourselves!" he called. "We ride for Moat Cailin at daybreak! We will wait for King Robert's party and join him as freeriders. If Lord Stark is appointed Hand, we will ride south with them to be his dagger hidden in the sleeve. If not, we will resume our duties here in Winterfell."

Immediately, his men swarmed over their gear, loading up packs and saddlebags, working to get their work done so they could rest before leaving in the morning.

 **A/N: Hey guys, sorry it took so long to update. I'm trying to start writing longer chapters, and this one took a bit, as it was mostly groundwork and not much action, which is so much more fun to write. Also, I apologize for any OOCness you may notice, I don't always do the best job adapting other's characters to my own ends without slightly compromising the character. That said, I will do my best to stay close to the original characterisation. Should be easy enough for Ned, just have to have him be like HONOR! DUTY! All jokes aside, I'll do my best.**


	5. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Morning came, and Patrick mounted up with his fifteen. His horse, a powerfully built chestnut he had named Baelor, stood waiting. A bow was tied to his bedroll, a quiver of arrows at the left of his saddle, and his war lance rested in a holder on the right side of the saddle. He himself wore a mixture of leather and steel armor, a steel breastplate, greaves, and bracers, with leather guarding the rest of him. His helm was hanging from his sword belt by its strap, but as he mounted, he pulled it on, tightening the strap until it fit snugly. Ready to move at last, he signaled for his men to fall in, and they rode out through the gates of Winterfell.

 **\- 4 days later -**

After four days of riding, Patrick and his men arrived at Moat Cailin. Taking up residence in the ruined towers of the stronghold, they settled down to wait for the king's party to arrive.

 **\- 2 days later -**

A raven arrived on their second day in the ruined fortress, carrying a message for Patrick. The king's party was only a week away, right at the edge of the rations they had brought for themselves. The raven carried two vital pieces of news for Patrick's future plans. First, the diggers he had sent out from the Barrow weeks ago had found what he had sent them to look for: deposits of saltpeter and lead, necessary ingredients to manufacture the cartridges his new weapons would use. Second, Mikken had finished the first batch of parts, and with the help of a village carpenter, had assembled the first examples of the weapon that would transform Westeros.

Patrick's general plans were very simple, and now very possible. Mikken had created or him the first examples of a revolver and a repeating rifle, such as had been used in the American Civil War. The saltpeter and lead deposits in his lands would allow him to manufacture bullets and cartridges to load the firearms with, and with a small army thus armed, he could shape the future of Westeros as he saw fit. But all of this would take time, and the appropriate climate. And to make that happen he would have to put the hardest lesson he had learned in first the United States military, and later in fights with bandits here in Westeros: sometimes you had to the wrong thing to get the necessary results.

 **\- 5 days later -**

The king's party would be arriving in a few hours, and Patrick and his men were rushing about, getting their gear in order as they prepared to move out, hopefully now nominally in the King's service. As Patrick packed the last of his gear, a shout went up from the man he had posted on lookout duty.

"Commander!" he called. "Rider from the North!"

Patrick turned to the two nearest men, gesturing for them to grab their weapons and follow him. The three of them walked through the arched gateway, joining the guard, whose bow was off of his shoulder and half-drawn, ready to sight and fire an arrow at the unknown figure. He had come from the North, so he wasn't an advance rider for the king, and they would have recognized him if he was a messenger from Winterfell.

The sentry spoke first. "Who the fuck are you?" he challenged the stranger.

The stranger swung off his horse, bowing and sweeping a hood back from his head in a single fluid motion, revealing the features of a man from the Shadowlands of Asshai. He was swarthy, about the same coloring as a Dornishman, but the twin scimitars belted at his waist, not to mention the sweeping cloak, all marked him as one of the more flamboyant Asshai. The stranger spoke. "My name is Erojin Diatese, wanderer of these fair lands, hunter and bounty hunter extraordinaire. I can find anything, man or animal, can disappear in the shadows or appear as a gout of flame. I am everywhere and nowhere, life to my friends and death to my enemies, warrior and spy. Now that I have introduced myself, may I ask who the fuck you are?"

His speech obviously concluded, Patrick stepped forward to answer in kind. "I am Patrick Worrel, heir to House Worrel, warrior of the North, retainer to the Warden of the North, destroyer of bandits and hunter of men. I name myself thus, and now that we've introduced ourselves I suggest you fuck off before I let my man put his arrow into your cock."

Erojin twitched an eyebrow. "That may prove harder than you expect," he drawled, twitching aside his cloak to reveal armor plating. Specifically, a steel breastplate, bracers, and greaves similar to Patrick's own, but with addition of a steel codpiece. "I find that men often threaten my cock when I anger them, so I have taken steps to ensure it's safety, for the sake of all the women who have yet to make it's acquaintance," he smirked.

Patrick could no longer contain the smile threatening to break forth, and for a brief moment his laughter filled the air around the men. When it subsided, to the amusement of the foreign stranger and the chagrin of his men, he began to speak again. "It's been a long time since I met someone with the sack and lack of decorum to give me shit like that. Come, have a drink and make some friends, stranger," he chuckled.

Without looking at the other, he gestured for his men to put away their weapons, then turned and walked back towards the campfire they had kept burning in the courtyard. He heard no footsteps behind him, but a moment later the Asshai had caught up and was walking beside him. 'Interesting,' he mused. 'Someone capable of that kind of stealth could prove invaluable to my cause.'

Over the next hour or so, the two traded tales of things they had seen and done, and by the end of their conversation, Patrick had reached a decision. "Erojin, how would you feel about joining our little band of merry men?" he asked, gesturing at the dour-faced Northmen around him. "All I ask is your loyalty, and in return I will give you a family." Here he began to chuckle again. "Admittedly a family of cold-hearted bastards, but a family nonetheless. Oh, and I suppose that there is quite some potential for riches as well," he deadpanned.

Erojin smiled back at the lordling. "It would be my pleasure, commander. Now why don't you tell me why a bunch of Winterfell guardsman are sitting around in Moat Cailin waiting for the King?"

 **A/N: Hey guys, sorry for the lack of updates. I'm trying to write longer chapters and life has gone crazy. Thanks for all the new follows and favorites, and I hope you enjoy the story!**


	6. Chapter 4

**A/N: Alright guys, my email is exploding with follows and favorites, so, if you don't mind, I have a question for you all: why in the seven hells are you all so interested in this story? Leave your answer in the comments, or PM me. Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

 **Chapter 4**

It was mere hours later that the King's party arrived. Hours Patrick had spent filling Erojin on the events of the past few days and their plans. Something about the flamboyant Asshai made Patrick trust him. He reminded him of a friend of his, more of a kid brother really, from his past life. He may not have remembered the person from his past life, but the impression on his personality remained. Any way about it, Patrick trusted the newcomer, perhaps more than he should when he intended to play the game of thrones.

When the king's party arrived, Patrick and his newly-grown platoon were waiting outside the gates, weapons sheathed on their mounts so as to appear non-threatening. A group of Lannister guardsmen broke away from the rest of the group, hands on their weapons and the eyepieces to their helmets closed to add extra protection. Their leader spoke first, his tone indicating that he'd be just as happy to kill them where they stood as question them. "Who are you? Why are you blocking the way of the royal family?" he growled.

"My name is Patrick Worrel," the lordling responded. "I lead this group of cavalry, and we would join the king's party as his sworn swords."

The Lannister guardsman started to respond, what was visible of his face beneath his helm already showing how he was going to answer, when a smiling face familiar to any Game of Thrones fan emerged from the behind the soldiers. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, and a man who would unfortunately likely not get his redemption arc if Patrick's plans played out as he expected them to.

"Come now, I'm sure that the King would enjoy talking to some _fine_ warriors like these. Follow me, ser." With that, the Kingslayer turned and walked away, leading Patrick and his men down the train, towards the wheelhouse Patrick knew carried the Queen. They came to a stop a few meters away from the wheelhouse, in front of a giant man as recognizable as the Kingslayer: King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name. "Your Grace," Jaime called. "I have brought some Northmen who would swear their swords to you."

The King turned, ever-present wine cup in hand, even though he was mounted on a horse. "Ah, come, come," he boomed. "You would swear your swords to the King? Good, good!" Here he swung off of his horse, landing heavily on the ground, tottering for a moment before regaining his balance. "Kneel, kneel. Swear yourselves to the throne, and serve me well."

A few words later, and it was done. The King smiled, before waving a hand and getting back up on his horse, with no small assistance from his squires. "Ser Jaime, give these men their orders," he drawled, before turning and riding off down the line of horses and wagons.

Jaime turned back towards Patrick. "We have heard tell of a camp of bandits nearby. I would send you to exterminate them in the King's name, to prove your worth and mettle in his service."

Patrick quirked an eyebrow. "Bandits, Kingslayer?" he asked, watching as Jaime flinched the tiniest mount at the insult. "I and every man of my company are blooded and tested, and you would send us to fight bandits that have escaped the notice of the local lords?"

Jaime smiled tensely, obviously unhappy with being questioned. "Those are your orders," he growled. "I suggest you follow them, or the King will be informed that you no longer wish to enter his service. The King can be… unpredictable when disappointed."

"Fine," Patrick spat. He turned, leading his men back to where their horses had remained. "Mount up! We ride towards White Harbor in search of bandits!"

Moments later, the party of sixteen were mounted and riding east, looking for bandits.

 **\- 7 hours later -**

Patrick and his men were arrayed in the woods around the bandit's camp. There were about twenty of them, lightly armed and completely unarmored. A snowfall had begun a few hours before, and the bandits were clustered around a fire in the middle of the camp, huddled together, trying to stay warm.

Patrick had spread his men all around in a wide circle, each armed with a bow, waiting on his signal. The bandits hadn't moved in nearly half an hour, other than shifting around to get warm. They were all bundled up in furs, their weapons not easily accessible. Patrick stood, drew, sighted, and loosed an arrow in one fluid motion, his arrow piercing the neck of one of the bandits. An instant later, a volley of arrows flew from all sides, striking down fifteen more of the bandits. The instant Patrick had fired, he had drawn his sword from it's sheath at his belt and charged forward into the clearing.

Of the four remaining bandits, two still sat where they had been, stunned by the sudden attack. The other two had obviously seen some kind of combat before, as they were standing, throwing off their furs, going for their weapons. Patrick's sword point took the first of the veterans through his neck, cutting almost all the way through the man's neck. He spun back towards the other, blocking a sword cut towards his own throat. He spun his sword around, knocking the bandit's rusted old longsword away, then whipped it in a flat arc at chest height in a blow that would have taken him straight through the heart. The bandit's own sword jumped to the defense, sending flakes of steel and rust flying off of his sword. A few blows later, the bandit tripped over a tussock hidden by the snow, and Patrick took advantage by burying his sword in his back.

Patrick spun, ready to engage the other two, who should have had time to shake off their cloaks and draw their weapons by now, just in time to see Erojin slap one of their swords aside with his right blade and bury the left in the other man's chest. He ripped the embedded blade free, deflecting a weak, low-powered blow with consummate ease and slashing the bandit's throat. The two stood for a moment, breathing hard, before a grin spread over Patrick face and he stepped forward, clasping the other man's forearm in thanks.


	7. Chapter 5

**A/N: Holy shit guys, ya know what this is? My THIRD DAILY UPDATE! Which if you knew me at all and knew what lazy piece of shit I am, it would be super impressive. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Chapter 5**

The king and his traveling companions had only made a few more miles of progress since Patrick's men had left them, and they caught back up easily. It was on entering the camp that they encountered one of Patrick's favorite people in Westeros: Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. Tyrion was bent over a thick tome, a tankard of wine in his hand, and glanced up suddenly at their approach. The sardonic grin that was one of his many trademarks spread over his face when he saw the approaching group.

"Well, what do we have here?" he snarked. "Some more lonely hedge knights come to join my brother-in-law's army?"

Patrick smiled in return, reaching into his saddlebag. "I'm afraid we are no knights, my lord of Lannister, and as for what we've come for, we come to bring your _wonderful_ brother this," he said, tossing the severed head of one of the bandits at the Imp's feet.

The dwarf's eyes widened momentarily, before his usual look of disinterest reasserted itself. "How impressive," he said. "Sixteen men to bring my brother one head."

Patrick maintained his smile. "Sixteen men to kill twenty, and bring one head to throw at your pretty brother and hopefully wipe that smile off of his face," he responded.

Tyrion's face instantly clouded over. "I am many things, ser, but disloyal to my family is not one of them. I may be small of stature, but insult my family again and you will taste the full _height_ of my displeasure."

Patrick continued to smile, stooping to Tyrion's height to retrieve the head. "As you say, my lord," he said laconically, then turned and walked away in search of the Kingslayer.

 **\- 3 weeks later -**

Events were moving apace. The first load of cartridges for Patrick's firearms had arrived at Winterfell at the same time he did, two weeks previously. With all the hubbub, he had just now garnered a chance to go and ensure all was in working order. The king had gone hunting, and he knew that soon Bran would fall from the tower to become a cripple. While he knew it was necessary for events to shape up as he would have them, his remaining twenty-first century sensibilities would not allow him to be around while a child was seriously injured. So instead he removed himself.

He had ridden far enough from any castle or settlement, alone, that the gunshots would go unnoticed. Targets sat at various ranges, one at ten meters, one at twenty, another at fifty and the last at one hundred meters. The first two he would be shooting at with his revolver, while the others would be reserved for rifle fire. In a smooth motion, remembered from doing the same at a firing range thousands of times in his last life, he brought his revolver up in a Weaver stance, both hands wrapped around the grip, side-on, cocked back the hammer, sighted, and fired.

The first bullet went just wide of the target, so he frowned and fired again, ensuring his aim was dead on. It was, but the bullet this time struck the outer ring of the target. He reached down for his tools, making adjustments to the sights before firing again. Closer this time. A few more adjustments, and he put a full cylinder, six rounds, into the bullseye of the ten meter target. Reloading and switching targets, he quickly replicated the feat at twenty meters.

Returning the revolver to its holster at his belt, he next drew the lever-action repeater from a special sheath on Baelor. He started at the twenty meter target to make sure the sights were adjusted. A few minutes later, he was consistently hitting the bullseye, so he walked his fire out to the fifty meter, then the hundred, only stopping when he could put all of the repeater's fourteen rounds through each target's bullseye.

Finally, he reached into a small, padded case attached to Baelor's saddle, withdrawing what looked like a small telescope. He hooked it to a pair of mounting points canted to the side of the repeater, then stared down it. A brass tube, with two pieces of Myrish lenses mounted at either end, it was Westeros' first scope for its first rifle. He repeated the process of sighting in with the scope. His work for the day finished, and most of his first shipment of ammunition exhausted, he finally glanced around and realized how dark it had become. Loading his gear, and secreting his firearms among his other gear, he turned and rode back to Winterfell.

 **\- 2 weeks later -**

Patrick prepared to ride out of Winterfell for King's Landing, with the royal party from the start this time. Upon Ned's acceptance of the position of Hand of the King, Robert had seen fit to assign Patrick and his men to be the Hand's guard, to augment his personal guards. This fit perfectly with the lordling's plans, allowing his men to keep the Stark's safe while also allowing them the autonomy to do what needed to be done in the capital.

It only took a few more days of travel before Patrick emerged from his tent in the middle of the night to relieve himself, just in time to nearly run into an unarmored Lannister guardsman at the flap of his tent.

"Lord Worrel," the guardsman said, sketching a short bow. "The Queen asks you to please follow me to meet with her."

"At this hour?" Patrick questioned.

"Aye, my lord. She requested you come as soon as you are able," the guard replied.

Patrick nodded his acquiescence, gesturing for the guard to lead the way. Scant moments later, they stood in front of the Queen's tent, and the guard gestured for the lordling to precede him into the tent. Patrick stepped inside, almost instantly dropping to one knee. "Your Grace, to what do I owe the honor?" he asked.

Cersei Lannister flapped a hand at the Northern warrior. "Rise, rise," she said. "I would ask something of you, Northman."

"What would you have of me, your Grace?" he asked.

"I want you to spy on Ned Stark for me," she said, as bluntly as could be.

"Your Grace…" he began, but she cut him off.

"Will you do it or not?" she snapped. "I am a busy woman, and I don't have time for hemming and hawing."

Patrick smiled inwardly. He had hoped something like this would happen. Acting as a spy for Cersei would allow him to partially control what information she received, as well as hopefully garnering information on her own plans. His answer came eventually to him, but quickly to her. "As you will, your Grace," he intoned.

She nodded at the guardsman behind him, who rested a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to turn and walk back out of the tent. Outside, he nodded at the guardsman before turning and walking back to his own tent to get some sleep.

 **\- The next day -**

The following day was one that Patrick had known was coming, and he realized it had come quickly. Arya Stark slipped out of camp with the butcher's boy, Micah, early in the morning. Not long after, Joffrey and Sansa rode out to spend some time together. Patrick slipped out after them, following them at enough distance that they wouldn't notice his presence without looking for him. Finally, he came to the site of the first confrontation between Lannister and Stark.

He watched as Arya and Micah went back and forth with sticks, whacking at each other with wild abandon. He watched as Joffrey dismounted, swaggering towards the two going at it. He swung off of his horse, advancing quietly, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Joffrey was posturing challenging the butcher's boy to attack him, when Patrick stepped out of cover and between the two.

Joffrey's face contorted in equal parts confusion and anger. "What are _you_ doing here, Northman?" he snarled.

"Simply wandering the countryside, your Grace," Patrick responded calmly.

"Then wander on, savage," the boy spat.

"I would, your Grace, but it seems as if you could use some assistance. After all, who knows what this strapping young butcher could do to a delicate southron flower such as yourself," he mocked.

The prince's face contorted in rage, turning towards Patrick and focusing solely on him, just as the lordling had hoped. Joffrey's sword cleared it's sheath, and he rushed the older, stronger, more experienced man. The first blow Patrick dodged by stepping aside, the second with a slight sway, and the third with a short hop. Finally, he grew tired of the dance and stepped into the next blow, knocking the sword aside with his bracer. Joffrey fell off balance, and Patrick gave him a shove, grabbing the sword with a mailed hand as the boy fell backwards and disarming him.

Ignoring the fallen royal, Patrick instead turned his attention towards the sword in his hand. It was fine blade, castle-forged steel inlaid with gold. With a small grin on his face he turned and flung it, end-over-end, into the Trident, much as Arya had in the original timeline. This time, however, there would be no loss of life.


End file.
